


The Underachievers: An Operetta in Three Short Acts

by missdibley



Series: The Red Nose Diaries [62]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Blow Job, Existing Relationship, F/M, Fellatio, Fluff, Smut, The Night Manager - Freeform, The Pirate Fairy, golden globes, intercourse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9396266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdibley/pseuds/missdibley
Summary: Three January nights in the lives of Tom and Carmen. First, Tom and Carmen watch a movie. Second, they go out for brunch. Third, they exchange presents (and Carmen rants about that last episode of 'Sherlock' because boy did she not like it).





	

**Act I: “The Frigate That Flies”  
January 2015, Chicago**

Previously: [ The Overachievers ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4467890) | [ Night - Chapter 4 - A Wrinkle in Time ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7762087/chapters/18277438)

Carmen didn’t know what time it was. She knew only that it was late.

The view from the floor to ceiling windows of the hotel suite she currently occupied faced west, away from Lake Michigan. She had watched the sun set, then eaten a room service supper. The remnants of that meal — steak bones and stale French fries on bone china plates rimmed in silver — remained in place on the table.

Dessert, which was shagging Tom Hiddleston, was served in bed.

It was a nice bed that Carmen lay in, head propped up just so on an absurdly large pillow. Large, not too high, and made up with crisp white sheets. She made a mental note to search for the tag with the brand name later, then peered at Tom’s face again.

He slept on, looking angelic (even while he snored) with his head propped on her belly. Carmen wanted desperately to suck in her stomach, strive to look less rotund than usual. Look a little more like the type of girl she was accustomed to seeing him with in the gossip columns. Not that Carmen wasn’t pretty in her own way — wavy black hair that was only sometimes frizzy, wide brown eyes and a button nose scattered with freckles (which her traditional Filipino mother attributed to some _mestizo_ Catholic priest back in the day). She was heavy, fat even, but Carmen thought she wore it well.

Though never as well as this. Never as well as “hate fuck with a hot famous actor in a limousine”.

 _Oh Carmen, calm the fuck down,_ she thought to herself. _He knows what you look like. He knows what you feel like._

_Yeah but…_

_Girl. He knows what you_ taste _like._

Smiling to herself, she ran her fingers gently through Tom’s hair. Though his haircut appeared fresh, there were curls long enough at his brow and temple to comb forward. When Carmen did that, he looked like boyish and sweet. She thought so anyway. She brushed her fingers over one sharp cheekbone, and his eyes fluttered open.

“Hey,” he murmured, squinting up at her in the dark. “Sorry I fell asleep on you.”

Carmen giggled when he nuzzled her belly. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t think you’re sorry at all.”

Tom reached for her, draping a large hand over one of her breasts. “You are very warm.”

“This is true,” replied Carmen. She covered his hand with hers. When she turned her head back to the window, she felt Tom lift his head from her belly.

His eyes followed her gaze, pondering the blackness dotted with faraway lights. Tom then pushed himself up, with some reluctance as she really was that soft, and moved to the headboard to sit against a few pillows. His hair stuck out in tufts and little peaks. A bit self-conscious still, he tried to tame it.

She tutted at him. “You stop that.” She felt her cheeks warm when he smirked down at her.

“You sound like my nanny,” drawled Tom.

“Why do you say it like that?” Carmen scooted up, slapping his hands aways (albeit playfully) when he made to reach for her bare breasts.

“Like what?”

“Like ‘my nanny’ is a code name for ‘my little bit of stuff’”.

Tom laughed, a loud and abrupt bark which surprised Carmen. “I don’t have a little bit of anything. Just…” He stopped.

She nudged him with her shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“Erm…” Tom looked at her apologetically.

“Don’t explain,” said Carmen. “It’s alright.” She squeezed his hand. “I mean that.”

Before he could elaborate, she kissed his shoulder. “Hand me the remote. Let’s watch something silly we can fall asleep to.”

Tom nodded, handing her the remote control. They settled in, cuddling a little as they turned their attention to the large television on the far wall. It looked expensive and conspicuously shiny in comparison to the fake antique credenza upon which it was placed. Being new, the display was immediately glaring and bright when the set was switched on.

Carmen was an expert at navigating the guide, scrolling through the myriad of options that a plasma television in a $750 hotel suite would have on offer. When she found the adult channels, Tom snorted. “Next!” he commanded and Carmen obeyed. A few more taps, and then her choice was made.

“Carmen.”

“What?” she asked, moving the remote out of reach when he went after it. “What’s wrong? Is this a clunker?”

Tom blushed. “Not exactly.”

Carmen continued to play dumb. “You’ve already seen it?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” glowered Tom.

She stuck her tongue out, then snuggled into him. “So. Walk me through this…” Carmen smiled up at him. “Tell me everything about _The Pirate Fairy.”_

To her credit, Carmen paid rapt attention as Tom talked throughout the film. Instead of explaining the plot, he described the process of recording his part for the film.

“He sounds just like you,” Carmen said. “Nothing cartoony about him.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” Tom tilted his head to the side and watched James the cabin boy reveal himself to be the pirate Captain Hook. “My jaw isn’t quite that square.”

She clapped her hands as the pirates onscreen began to sing. “Oh!” Carmen smiled up at him. “You… you’re going to sing now, aren’t you?”

“Well, James is…” Tom started to say, stopping when she slapped his shoulder.

“You’re going to sing.” She blinked at him.

“And do you always get what you want?” Tom teased.

“Yes,” Carmen replied.

“Well, I don’t know…”

“You forget the words?” Her tone was accusing.

Tom scoffed. “Well, what do I get if I sing?”

Carmen bit the tip of her finger. “I’ll let you go down on me.”

Tom waggled his eyebrows at her. “Okay.” He took her in his arms, pressed his lips to her ear, and began to sing in time to the music:

 _"Hey ho!_  
_We'll be the freighter that plunders_  
Every one of the world's seven wonders!"

His breath was warm on her skin, and so were his lips when he would purse them to kiss her earlobe. Tom lay Carmen down as his kisses increased in number and intensity, his lips moving along her jaw then down her neck. Every movement of her soft body against his considerably firmer one urged him onward, every flash of her dark eyes and roll of her hips beneath him drew him in.

Focused and single-minded on seeking his pleasure, and yet Tom still sang along. He sucked at the base of her neck, his kisses wet and messy between lyrics whispered into her skin.

_“Oh, how high we will be,”_

Carmen grasped at his neck and kissed his lips.

_“'Cause the blue fairy dust surely packs a mighty wallop!”_

Tom pushed her legs apart gently with his own leg.

_“Soon it will set us free,”_

Carmen slid a hand down his chest.

_“From the chains of gravity!”_

Tom hovered over her, then covered her hand with his as it slid further down his body.

_“Then we'll hoist up the sail,”_

Carmen’s eyes flew open when she found his cock, hard and upright against his belly.. Tom groaned, removed his hand from hers and used it for leverage.

_“And we'll set course for the sun,”_

She moaned when Tom thrust into her grasp, and she brushed the tip of his cock against her clit.

_“'Cause when you've got wings,”_

Tom placed a hand behind her knee, lifting Carmen’s left leg up slightly. She whimpered when he pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

_“No wicked deed cannot be done.”_

“Oh, Tom…” He entered her slowly, making a low sound of bliss, for there were no words he could form, nothing he could say to describe the joining of their bodies, the look of desire and abandon on her face, or the surrender he gave once he was seated inside her completely.

The movie played on, and the pirates continued their song without Tom’s accompaniment.

_“And we owe it all to our great and glorious captain!”_

**Act II: “Etonian Rhapsody”  
New Year’s Day 2016, London**

previously: [ “Okay. Go.” ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5587144)

“Why are you doing that with your hand?” Tom didn’t look up from his newspaper, but Carmen, who sat next to him at a rickety table in a small cafe, knew what he was talking about.

“It’s cold.” And so Carmen’s left hand stayed in place, curled up in a soft fist and tucked into the pocket of her cardigan sweater. She didn’t speak in a tone of voice that could be described as forlorn, but just the same it struck a chord in Tom’s heart.

“Give it here.” Tom folded the paper, tossing it on the table, and took her left hand in both of hers. He gasped. “You’re freezing!”

“No, I’m not,” retorted Carmen. “Just my hand. My circulation is weird.”

“C’mere.” Tom pulled her in close, humming with satisfaction when he felt the press of her lips to his neck.

“Oh, well, hullo there.” A sharp voice cut through the din of the restaurant. They jumped, then looked up to find a ruddy faced man who stood, as though for inspection, at the corner of the table. By his side was a tall, nervous looking girl with silvery blond hair that hung in her limpid green eyes.

Tom cleared his throat. “Martyn.” He cleared his throat again. “Martyn Davy. It’s been an age, hasn’t it?”

The man smiled, clearly pleased to be remembered. “Hiddleston.” He looked around the room. “Nice little place,” he sniffed. “You must be doing well.” He continued to stand awkwardly.

“Oh, please do sit down.” Tom meant for his invitation to sound casual, not rushed. “May I introduce my fiancé?” When he didn’t feel Carmen perk up at the prospect to charm a potential new friend, Tom looked over at her.

Carmen was considering the girl, who had knotted herself up into an elaborate posture when she took the remaining chair at the table. Humming to herself, she moved her hands through the air in front of her. Dozens of brightly colored bangles clattered against each other as she moved her arms, conducting a symphony that nobody else could hear.

“Is she…?” Carmen looked at Martyn curiously. “Is your friend alright?”

“Oh, Dora?” When Martyn smiled at the oblivious Dora, he smiled indulgently. “Quite alright. Just very sensitive. She’s a great artist.”

“Oh.” Carmen looked at Dora’s hands, which were pale and unblemished. “What kind of art…”

“Atmospheric!” Martyn said proudly. “She works in wind.”

“Tom!” Carmen’s eyes went wide. “Did you hear that? She works in wind.”

“Dora is the world’s premiere atmospheric artist and wind manipulator.”

“Yes, but…” Carmen sat back. “What does that mean?”

“This.” Martyn nodded at Dora, who continued her movements.

A year ahead of Tom at boarding school, Martyn was also connected to Tom through his aunt, a neighbor of Tom’s mother Diana. Of course Martyn and Dora would be invited to join Tom and Carmen at a popular cafe where tables were scarce and the avocado toast was overpriced. They were almost friends.

At first interjecting the occasional “Oh, sure” or “That’s right”, Carmen gave up on the pleasant if stilted conversation and just focused on Dora. Dora, who gave autographs to a pair of nervous students, both of them wearing oversized knit dresses nearly identical to the one she wore. Dora, who refused all food and drink before ordering a mug of hot water into which she poured the contents of a sachet drawn from the depths of her handbag. “Dandelion tea,” Martyn explained.

It wasn’t clear what Martyn did, only that he had income enough to support Dora as her patron. This patronage included escorting her to various experimental music festivals around the United Kingdom.

“And you?” Martyn missed a drop of egg yolk on the front of his shirt. Tom was in the loo, and so it was Carmen’s turn to chat.

“What about me?” Carmen sipped her cocoa and waited.

“Are you an actor like Tom?”

Carmen shook her head.

“A writer?”

She shook her head again.

“A producer? Playwright? Director?”

“Um,” said Carmen, “I work in financial technology.”

“Trading and the like?”

“I’m not a trader, but I work at a commodities exchange.”

“Oh dear,” signed Martyn. “I do so hate talking about money.”

“But we weren’t talking about it…” began Carmen.

“It’s just so vulgar, isn’t that right, Thomas?” Martyn looked to Tom, who resumed his seat.

“What’s so vulgar?” Tom picked up his fork and speared a bit of scrambled eggs.

“Money, Tom.” Martyn sounded smug. “I hate, loathe, despise, and abominate money.”

“Does that mean you’re not paying for brunch?” Carmen muttered.

“Button,” said Tom soothingly. He turned to Martyn. “What exactly were you saying?”

“Well, it taints everything. Everything we do or desire. Every relationship we have.” Martyn regarded the ever ethereal Dora. “That’s why I support Dora. Her art is pure and untainted. It is free.”

“So Dora isn’t paid for her work?” Carmen asked.

“It isn’t work she makes, it’s art!”

“But there has to be some effort, for which she must be, I don’t know.” Carmen shrugged. “Compensated.”

“Dora simply _is_.” Martyn looked indignant. “Unadorned. She is not for sale. You will never see her work…”

“I thought you said it wasn’t work,” said Tom.

“You will never see her on telly, in an advert shilling for the masses.” Martyn huffed. “Dora will never sell out. Dora is nobody’s but her own.”

“I see,” said Carmen, her eyes flashing. Tom took her hand under the table and squeezed it, though he wasn’t yet sure if it was to calm her down or encourage an indignant reply.

“I think we can all admire those artists who strive for greatness, integrity,” said Tom. “Those who can’t afford to sacrifice vision for commerce.”

Martyn nodded sagely. “Thank you, Tom. I knew you’d understand.”

“And while I hate to dash, but do you mind getting the check, old man?” Tom said brightly. He got up, then held out his hand for Carmen to take as he helped her to her feet.

“But we were having such a lovely chat,” simpered Martyn. He patted his jacket. “I’m afraid I’ve left my wallet…”

“Oh but Dora here has inspired me. I’m heading straight home to call the Jaguar people, return the car I received as compensation when I appeared in their adverts with that notorious sellout Sir Ben Kingsley.”

“Was that _your_ F-Type I saw parked at the kerb?” Martin asked weakly.

“Yes, but not for long, I reckon.” Tom smiled ruefully, then looked down at Carmen, who was on the verge of tears, she was holding in her laughter. “Shall we, love?” And before she could reply, Tom and Carmen were off.

Back at home, Tom ran his hand along the sleek bonnet of his car. He leaned back and cross his arms, looking deep in thought when Carmen joined him. She tugged at his arm, but instead of following her across the garden and into the house, he enfolded her in a snug embrace.

“You know he’s never worked a day in his life?” He kissed the top of her head.

“Yeah?” She looked up at him. “Why not?”

“Inherited wealth. He bragged about it when we were at school. Which, if you were really loaded, properly posh, you never did.”

“I figured,” said Carmen. “It’s easy to say that you hate money, hate talking about it, if you’ve never had to worry about the lack of it.”

“Well said.”

“Of course,” Carmen said, scrunching her nose which made Tom want to kiss the tip of it, “I’m only with you because you’re rich.”

Tom laughed. “That’s just as well, because I’m only with you because of where you went to school.”

“I’m only with you because you’re tall.”

“I’m only with you because you’re…” Tom bit his lip. “Because you’re good in bed.”

“I’m sorry, say that again?” Carmen cupped her hand around her ear.

Tom growled. “You heard me.”

Before he could goose her, she wiggled out of his grasp. Taking his hands in hers, she ran her thumbs over the knuckles, then lifted them up to her lips for a kiss.

Tom started a bit when she pushed him back, setting his hands on the still-warm bonnet. Smiling to herself, she unzipped his jacket then undid a few more buttons at the neck of his faded button-down shirt.

Holding his breath, he was silent as she trailed her hand down his chest to the fly of his jeans. The day was grey but mild. Somewhere birds twittered, and in the distance cars drove up and down the street. In front of him, Carmen’s bosom heaved as she began to sing to herself. As she did, she unbuttoned his fly, slid her hand inside his jeans, and began to stroke his cock.

 _“Is this the real life?_  
_Is this just fantasy?_  
_Caught in a Tom slide_  
_No escape from the BBC_  
_I’ll open your thighs_  
You’ll look in my eyes and see…”

She looked up, wrinkled her nose, and laughed. She took a deep breath, then sank to her knees in front of him.

“Button, please…” Tom pleaded.

“Hush, Tom.” She licked her lips. “I’m practicing my art.” She brought him out, slowly pumping him with one hand while gently sucking on the head. Releasing him for a moment, she spit quietly and quickly into both of her hands. Hands which she clasped around his cock, squeezing gently between wet kisses to the tip. Those kisses got stronger, and then she just sucked on the head, moving in rhythm with her hands as they moved faster. Tom held onto the bonnet as long as he could, but it was no good. He let go, ran his fingers through her hair, and cried out.

“Carmen, I have to…”

With only the slightest hint of a pout, Carmen released him from her mouth and let Tom help her up. She gasped in surprise when he spun her quickly and bent her over the bonnet where he had just been leaning. He pushed up her skirt, and was pleasantly surprised to find that she wore no knickers.

“You little brat,” he hissed.

“Happy almost anniversary, baby,” she breathed. “Oh! Oh god, yes…” It was her turn to whine when she felt Tom’s cock brush against her wet slit from behind. “Oh fuck!” Tom’s hand came around her hip and settled between her legs, two fingers stroking her clit while from behind he entered her.

It wasn’t long before she lost all sense of everything but his cock, moving in and out of her cunt. Before he would bring her to the edge, then stop just as she was about to come. Something about the stuffy lunch, the cool air of the winter’s day, the tidy little home and the token of his love and devotion twinkling on her hand, made Tom restless.

Carmen loved it when he was restless.

She loved it when they finally came together. When he collapsed against her, cock still inside her, and pressed his lips to back of her neck while he whispered love and gratitude. When he walked her into the house, drew a bath, and helped her undress. When they soaked, her back against his chest while his hands skimmed the surface of the bath water. When he hummed contentedly, and Carmen finished her little song.

_“I'm just a poor slore,”_

“What’s a slore?”

_“Ain't got no dignity.”_

“An overrated virtue, my love.”

_“Because I’m easy come,_

_Easy blow._

_Little sighs, little moans._

_Any way the Tom goes…”_

“That’s me.”

_“Doesn't really matter to me…”_

Carmen looked up when she felt his lips on her temple, smiling when he finished the song.

 _“Just do me,”_ he said softly before kissing her again.

**Act III: “Thomas William Hiddleston”  
January 2017**

Previously: [ Spheres of Influence; or, The Golden Globes Diaries ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9275024)

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT.”

“Button?”

“THE FUCK, MAN?!”

“Carmen, please lie down.”

“No!”

“I take it you didn’t like the Sherl—”

“NO I DID NOT.”

“Okay.”

“You know the utter joy and glee and love and pride and joy…”

“You said joy already…”

“JOY that I felt when you won your Golden Globe? The Golden Globe that is sitting right there, on the bookshelf?”

“Erm, yes.”

“THIS IS THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF THAT.”

“I’m sorry, Button.”

“Why couldn’t you be it?”

“Be what?”

“BE SHERRINFORD.”

“I thought Sherrinford was a place.”

“It is now! But he… I wanted you to be him! The hot younger brother!!”

“That’s not how Sherlock usually goes. And Sherrinford isn’t considered canon anyway, right?

“Instead we get a psychotic underdeveloped baby sister who sounds like a part of the urinary system.”

“I thought she was quite good in the part.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Very well.”

“If I ever see Mark Gatiss again, I’m going to kick him in the Mycroft.”

“Very funny.”

“And to top it all off I didn’t get Hamilton tickets!”

“You didn’t?”

“The ticketing system was weird and then it was sold out and it’s all Sherlock’s fault.”

“Was it now?”

“But it’s okay. I’m going to do the West End one better. I’m going to stage my own production of Hamilton in the cafeteria at lunch. Me and the other fans at the office.”

“How does a show that is ten months away from opening already have fans?”

“They’re American, too. It’s our patriotic duty in a post-Brexit, post-Trump world.”

“Carmen, you pine nut.”

“Oh! And you! You’re in it!”

“Am I?’

“You’re King George, baby.”

“Carmen!”

“You have to! It’s like the only White person in the show.”

“So it’s me being White that makes me King George!”

“Well, that and I’m fucking you.”

“You make me feel so cheap.”

“Save your White tears, Cambridge.”

“Anything else?”

“I wrote you a little song. In a Hamilton and Golden Globe induced frenzy of lust, right before you got home.”

“Aw, sweetheart.”

“Quiet, Georgie. Your favorite subject has a message for the king.”

“Yes, my love.”

“Now sit, pray attend, and listen.”

“Fire away.”

 _“Thomas William Hiddleston_ __  
_My name is Thomas William Hiddleston_ __  
_And there’s a million roles I haven’t done_   
But just you wait, just you wait… Hey! I wasn’t finished!”

“Standing ovation, Button. That was gorgeous.”

“But you’re sitting… _oh_!”

“Let me into your backstage, I want to see your dressing room.”

“But you haven’t heard the whole thing!”

“I’ve heard enough. All the Tonys for you. And, erm, this.”

“What… OH MY GOD.”

“You like?”

“YOU GOT ME TICKETS TO HAMILTON.”

“Happy anniversary, Carmen.”

“And all I got for you was a dumb parody of a song.”

“I loved it.”

“I didn’t even finish it.”

“Sing me the rest for my birthday.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, I quite like that…”

“Shuddup.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case you want to sing along
> 
> 1\. The Frigate That Flies: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuK-2FIjI88>
> 
> 2\. Bohemian Rhapsody: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJ9rUzIMcZQ>
> 
> 3\. Alexander Hamilton: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yIl1OIGzuDg>


End file.
